


Untitled

by crowleyshouseplant (orphan_account)



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Gen, Genderqueer, Other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-11-20
Updated: 2011-11-20
Packaged: 2017-10-26 07:45:27
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 533
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/280523
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/crowleyshouseplant
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>You examine your body.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Untitled

**Author's Note:**

> This is another fic that I wrote for Rory.

You stare at yourself in the mirror behind your ironic shades wearing a baseball cap just like your bro.

You take off the cap though, put it in your sylladex for later. Your pale hair, all tight and coiled in braids and pinned to your scalp with bobby pins, looks fuzzy in the light, like it just had an unfortunate strife encounter with some static electricity.

And lost.

...ironically.

You pat it smooth with your palm, then dig out the pins.

If they're tangled up with strands of hair, you just wrench them out, even if it hurts, because fuck, it's not like it's going to matter anyway.

Your hair is thick. Your hair busts even the fiercest of hair clips.

Your hair is going down.

It'll be epic.

You start unbraiding your hair for dramatic purposes. Definitely not because you're having second thoughts about this which would be silly because it's not like you haven't been thinking about this for as long as you can remember.

Your hair tried to curl in the braids but fuck. They're just too cool for curls.

Kind of like you.

You shake your hair out. Feel that crinkly-wrinkly sensation tight in your scalp that hurts like fuck but shit it's just relief at the same fucking time.

You think how much better you'll be able to headbang to rad beats without hair getting caught in your mouth as you gather it up into your fist, knuckles pressed tight against the nape of your neck, bony and hard and biting against the skin. With your other hand, you pick up some scissors and press the blades flat against your scalp.

And cut so that you're holding just a bunch of stupid hair in your stupid fist.

You may or may not laugh triumphantly or bitterly or purposely.

It's probably ironic.

Whatever it is.

You take out the electric razor you bought for yourself and bring it up to your head. Your scalp is more tender than you were expecting (seriously what is even up with that) but you focus on the strips of pale, hairless, baby skin and—briefly--consider leaving it like that—half shaved, half not—like that one shithead who went to bed with one shoe on and one shoe off.

You decide to just off it all.

Because you're Dave Strider.

You don't do anything half-assed.

That would be the very opposite of the epitome of cool.

When your hair's on the floor instead of your head, you feel the itch of the leftovers under your collar, so you take your shirt off and shake it out, brushing the flyways off with your hand until it's not too bad anymore.

You look at yourself in the mirror.

Still flat chested.

You wonder how long that'll last but then think about something else, like how chill you're going to be when shit hits the fan and you start to do this whole growing up business that people bitch incessantly about.

Hmmm. Someone's pestering you? Who could it be?

After John leaves so abruptly, you bring up Hephaestus, and search "binding" for when shit hits the fan, and you grow up and no one understands.


End file.
